30 tive moments and then flew back to their coop and were driven aloft again. Mike was amused by the game. .L fter a while the pigeon-keeper locked the birds in their coop, took a paper bag out of his pocket, and tossed some corn into each pen. Then he left the roof, and Mike felt deserted. While he sat at the window, leaning forward, with his el- bows on the sill, it became dark and he began to feel bad. He had slept little the night before. A hot bath had done no good and aspirin had made him even ll10re shaky. He had been too jittery and too lonesome to sleep. Staring out over the dark roofs, he tried to get con- trol of himself, but it was no use. He began to cry. He took off his glass- es and rubbed his eyes. His eyes were strained by sleeplessness and the tears made them smart. Mike had got so he talked to himself. "I cry as easy as an old maid in the dark at a movie," he said. "I got to hold on to myself some- how." He walked up and down in the shabby room. When he could bear it no longer he stretched out on the bed, face downward. After a while he sat up. He reached intu a pocket of his coat, which hung on the back uf a chair, and got his cigarettes. He sat on the edge of the bed, smoking in the dark When he had finished the ciga- rette he put on his coat, got his hat, and felt in the dark for the doorknob. He didn't want to turn on the light and see, on the bureau, the photograph of Betty. As he walked downstairs, Mike thought, "I can't blame her much fur leaving." On the street he felt that people looked away when they saw h]s strained face. He walked down the street, hunting for a new place to eat. For six weeks he had eaten in places that did not sell liquor-diners, coffeepots, cafeterias, and chow-mein joints. He was hungry. After he had sent the weekly money order to Betty Saturday afternoon and paid the rent on the furnished room, he had fourteen dollars left. In the old days he had spent twice that on a Satur- day night, making a round of barrooms, and had thought nothing of it. "I'm sick of the junky grub in those cafeteri- as," he said. "I'm going someplace and get a decent meal." He stared into the neon-lit window of a bar and grill. There was a row of booths parallel with the bar. The place was not crowded. He could eat in peace. Mike went in. He ordered a steak. ...A.n old man and a young man were standlng at the bar, hunched over beers. The old man was quiet, but the young man hummed a YE-S, THé SE,RJAL WILL ßé CONTINUE-D You recommend that the motive, in Installment 8, should be changed from ambition to a desire, on the heroine's part, for doing good; yes, that can be done. Installment 9 could be more optimistic, as you point out and it will not be hard to add a heartbreak to the class reunion in Installment 10. The script for 11 may have, as you say, too much political intrigue of the sordid type; perh ps a diamond-in-the-rough approach would take care of this. And 12 has a reference to war that, as you suggest, had better be removed; yes. This brings us to the holidays that coincide with our prison sequence. \Vith the convicts' Christmas supper, if you approve, We can go to town )"r es, this should not be difficult. It can be done. \'Thy not? And script 600 brings us to the Inillennium, with all the fiends of hell singing 13ach chorales. .( nd in 601 we explore the Valleys of the :\I100n (why not? ), finding in each of them fresh Fountains of Youth. .l\.nd there is 110 mortal ill that cannot be cured by a little money, or lots of love, or by a friendly smile; no. .i\.nd hUlnan hopes have never gone unrealized; no. And the rain does not ever, anywhere, fall upon corroded monuments and the neglected graves of the dead. . song. He would hUlll a few minutes, tentatively, and then he \\7ould break out into a verse. " 'Oh,' " he sang, " , the wheel flew off the hearse, and the coffin rolled out in the road. The widow got out of her . d h O d ,,, carnage an s e sal - The bartender came out of the kitch- en and gave the young man a stern look; he quit singing in the middle of the verse. "Don't look at me like that," the young man said, frowning at the bar- tender. "I know I'm a nuisance. I know I'm a no-good bum. No good to myself, no good to nobody. Day I was born, I wish they'd dropped me in a tub, like I was a cat. Let me have a heer. 'Oh, the wheel flew off the hearse, and the coffin rolled out in the road.' '"Vhat's the matter with you? Did you have a stroke? Let's have that beer." "Keep your pants on," said the bar- tender. "None of your lip," said the young man. "Let's have that beer." "1 think he wants a beer," said the old man, not looking up. The bartender took the empty glass and went reluctantly to the spigot. "I never saw a man could drink so much beer," he said angrily. "It ain't human." "I drink so much beer," said the -KENNETH FEARING . young man, winking at his companion, "because I'm afraid if I was to drink whiskey, it would make me drunk. They say whiskey makes you drunk. I sure wouldn't want that to happen to me." The old man snickered. Eating his steak and potatoes, Mike felt at ease. The atmosphere of the bar- room, the bickering of the men at the har, the beer smell comforted him. It was like finding, in a strange city, some- one you knew and liked. It was a small barroom, a neighborhood joint. Over the bar was a poster advertising a Monster Bingo Party at the Cath- olic church around the corner. '"Vhen he had finished his cof- fee, Mike got up and walked over to the bar and stood there. 'The bartender was out in the kitchen. Mike stood at the bar, cd. one foot on the rail, with his right hand in a pocket of his trou- sers. He rubbed coins together in his pocket and his hand was sweating. Sud- denly he remembered he hadn't left a tip for the waitress. He went back to the table and put a dime beside his coffee cup. Then the bartender came out and Mike handed him his check and a dullar bill. "Eighty-fi' cents," said the bartender, ringing up IVlike's bill. He gave Mike his change and Mike put on his overcoat and started for the door. He glanced at the clock